Killer Move

I glanced at Jane again.

“She’s not my friend,” I said.

“There were larger casts each time. Longer lead-ins. More and more ornate. It got . . . it got a little out of control. And . . . look, Bill, maybe you’d have been the same if you were part of the group. You’re an operator, right? I’ve seen that in you. You know what you want, you’re going for it. You’re all about trying to bend the world to fit. You’d have enjoyed the games, too.”

“No,” I said. “I wanted to be someone, yes, but I’m not like you. And so now one of the people whose life you fucked up decided to come back and make you all pay, right?”

“That may be so.”

“Good. I wish I’d known all this when I met him. I’d’ve shaken his hand. So—is that all? We done?”

Tony shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”

“You don’t think you deserve what’s coming to you?”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “There’s a death on my conscience, always will be. Katy was a waster, but she didn’t deserve to die. But I mean that’s not what’s going on right now. That bottle of wine you gave me, and the one your wife drank. How long ago did you buy those?”

“I can’t remember,” I said. “A month. Probably closer to six weeks when my post went up asking around about it. Why?”

“It wasn’t part of the game.”

“What do you mean?”

“We don’t know who set that up. We weren’t even started on this year’s game six weeks ago, and the scenario was always initially sketched out by Marie. You’d been picked as the target, but nothing else had been put in place. And a month ago Hunter was still in jail.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

“There’s something else going on,” Marie said. “As soon as David went missing, we pulled the plug. Called Jane, told her to cease and desist. But it didn’t stop. Someone else is playing a different game.”

“Who?”

“We don’t know. My guess is Warner.”

“Why would he? I thought you guys were close.”

“We were,” Tony muttered. “But the last couple years, it seemed like he was getting tighter and tighter wound. I started to distance myself. There’s a chance he found out about a big condo deal Peter and I cut him out of. Marie’s theory is that he decided to pull us into the game ourselves, in revenge for going behind his back. Personally, I think he just did it for . . . fun.”

“So who killed Cassandra? You or these alleged other people, the ones playing to Warner’s new script?”

He frowned. “Who the hell is Cassandra?”

Marie looked equally confused.

“You didn’t tell me this because you think I’m owed, or because you feel bad,” I said. “You told me because you’re scared to death and you’re wondering if I made an arrangement with Hunter, or Warner, to hand you guys up. This isn’t about me. It’s still about you.”

“Did you make a deal?”

“No. But why me? What did I ever do to you? I worked for Peter Grant. I was selling your condos. I wanted to be somebody, but I was making money for you guys in the meantime. What did I ever do to make it ‘entertaining’ to screw up my life?”

“I’m sorry it happened. We can work things out.”

“No. This game’s over, Tony, and now someone’s coming for you. I don’t know who they are, and I don’t care, but good fucking luck to them.”

I turned and stormed away.

I heard Jane’s footsteps following. My legs were stiff. My head felt empty. I knew that if I didn’t get myself out of there then bad things were going to happen. A lot of me wanted to stay and let them happen, but I knew my life was fucked up enough.

As we got halfway down the stairs, I heard a voice call out above.

“Bill.”

It was Marie. She was standing at the top.

“This isn’t over yet,” she said. Her face was pinched. “There is no limit to what Warner will do. None at all. Go back to your house, get what you need, and then go. Go as far as you can, and go fast.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The door at the bottom of the little staircase was shut. I grabbed at the handle, yanking it, had started kicking and punching out at it before I realized I was losing control. Jane moved me aside, almost gently, and undid the catch. I tugged the door open and stormed across the restaurant. It had gotten much busier in the time I’d spent listening to Tony Thompson justify more than twenty years of breaking lives, and I bodychecked a waiter without realizing he was even there, upending a full tray of drinks and appetizers. He started to get on my case, but I shoved him out of the way, knocking him backward into a table of four.

I was halfway to the door to the outside when something—someone—caught my eye. There was a couple sitting over on the left, a two-top well positioned near one of the nice long windows that looked down onto the leafy side street. The woman had her back to me. I didn’t know the guy opposite her, a chunky guy in shorts and a Bermuda shirt, big fat face and goatee beard, staring down at his menu as if it was in Sanskrit. I knew the woman, however, even from behind. I knew even before I heard her let out a big, weird laugh.

I started moving toward them. I heard Jane say something, but ignored it.

“Hey,” I said when I got to the table.

Janine looked up. She was wearing a print dress that actually looked okay, and well out of her price range. Her hair had been done since I’d seen her that morning.

“Well, hey, Bill. How’s tricks?”

I had no answer to that. “I don’t think you ever met my husband.” She indicated her dinner date. “Oli, this is Bill Moore. You know. My ‘boss.’ ”

“S’up,” he said, nodding.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Having dinner, of course,” Janine said, selecting a juicy olive from the bowl in the middle of their table. The movement was dainty, precise. “Oli’s going to take the rib eye, I bet. I’m pretty sure I’m headed for the swordfish. But as regards appetizers, I’m not sure. Going to take my time working that out.” She smiled at me again, with an odd, gloating expression. “But hey—you’ve been here a couple times, right? What would you recommend? From your wealth of experience?”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I asked again, more loudly. Diners at nearby tables turned. “There’s no way you can afford this place. We even discussed it.”

“I got paid,” she said, and the smug contentment ratcheted up yet another notch. “Really I should be thanking you, I guess.”

Jane had taken hold of my arm. “This isn’t going to help,” she told me.

“Hey, Jane,” Janine said, popping another olive into her mouth. “Doesn’t he know yet? I assumed he just got the big reveal.”

“Know what?”

“I actually understand computers pretty well, Bill,” Janine said. “Better than you, probably. Funny, huh? Month back, Peter Grant popped into the office one day when you were out shoving your tongue up the ass of some poor client. Peter asked if I wanted to help play a joke. And I thought to myself, ‘What? Help trick the slick fucker who looks at me every day like he thinks I’m some fatso who’s not worth the time of day? And who never misses an opportunity to buddy up with his pretty, skinny-bitch colleague to patronize the hell out of me? Why on earth would I want to do that?’ ”

She winked. “I’m joking, of course, Billy-boy. I said yes right away.”

I was swallowing rapidly.

“I sent that joke from your account,” she said. “I set up the recorder to grab your Amazon password, too,